Just me and you and the faith we're bringing....into the real world

For no reason whatsoever, or perhaps for the biggest reason of all

And I shall drive my chariot down your streets and cry

And I will never, never, never grow so old again

Ruby turned 8-years-old a few weeks ago, and this is a belated birthday message; someday may she walk and talk in gardens all misty and wet with rain.

Like the album it comes from, "Sweet Thing" is mystical, mysterious and somehow defies description. And so lovely it hurts.

All quite fitting in this instance, I think.

He was the egg man

While I was out wasting my time at rock concerts and sitting in my room listening to records and baseball games, this is what my grandfather was doing.

Royal Lockard had no time for any frivolities. I don't really remember him much like this, but I do know he was always working. He seemed to hold not much use for the modern world, and he seemed to live a code that was rooted in the 19th century, at least to me.

Men had their roles, women has theirs. Men took care of work outside the house, women took care of work inside the house. My grandmother didn't drive, or example. He didn't have much use for television, and for shows he did watch (Lawrence Welk, for example), it became a problem for him when the show began to feature more and more women. He was the youngest of 11 children, and as I have mentioned before, arthritis left him a virtual cripple in his mid-60s.

Royal and Orpha (along with their children Kline, Florence (known as Dolly) and Rolland (my dad) grew most of their own food on their 40-acre farm, which featured a very large vegetable garden and field upon field of sweet corn. They raised cows, chickens and pigs. Kline and my dad had to drop out of school after the 8th grade to work on the farm. And for as much as women seemed to take a back seat, I was told he encouraged Dolly to finish her education, which she did down the road five miles in Picture Rocks.

Theirs was a simple life for sure. Work seven days a week, with church on Sundays. We often visited on the weekends when I was very young, and I got to help milk cows and collect eggs.

If Royal was alive today, he would not call what I do working. Sitting at a desk was for city folks, and if you weren't using your hands and back, you weren't working.

The only time I saw him relax was on Sunday afternoon drives. The women would sit in the back and the men in the front, me in the middle between Royal and Rolland, who drove.  We would drive around for a couple of hours, look at neighboring farms and end up with ice cream, which was extravagant (or so it seemed to me) in my grandparents world,

On the way home, "Pappy" could see I was getting sleepy and invite me to put my head on his shoulder for a nap.

And between faith and family and the sweat of the working day, you could feel the silence  of these far, far simpler times.

In rural Pennsylvania. In another time. In another place.

I got a home on high, in another land, so far away.....

The quest for musical/spiritual transcendence has been a career-long quest for Van Morrison. On “Astral Weeks” he even claimed that he had reached his destination.

And on "Vanlose Stairway", he indeed comes close. Very close.

The series of events, places and people that make up our lives are often seemingly mundane. But like in Wim Wenders' life-changing and affirming “Wings of Desire,” it is finding joy and meaning in those moments that provide a reason for living.

And for some, the path itself that uses these touchstones as a markers in a search provides enough of that reason to believe.

Morrison’s stairway may be a literal place (for him, a neighborhood in Copenhagen), or a symbol of what is higher, be it physical or spiritual.

A moment. A place. A time.

And as with so much of his music, there is enough mystery here to get lost while maybe even still finding yourself.

He references a pillow, a Bible, a gee-tar, a Hindu text, physical love and a stairway that reaches up to the moon and back to you.

What does all this mean? I don’t know, and you don’t either. And I don’t think Van knows.

More importantly, I think, is the fact that it is all about the search itself. We are all searching, some more than others. Some may think they have found it. Others not.

The music cascades, going into the mystic, and cycling same through just three chords. These chords resolve into each other, again and again, creating a dreamlike atmosphere that simply does not go on long enough.

It is breathtaking.

Wherever Van is trying to get to, I want to go too. Or at least join him in the search.

We may be looking for different places, but we are the same journey, trying to find our own version of home.

Here's a version I especially like (although I haven't heard a bad one yet) that features Georgie Fame with Van yodeling and name checking Little Richard.



Why did you leave America? Why did you let me down?

I've been a little lax in visiting Van Morrison's catalog lately, and this is one that hit the iPod rotation recently. It's a perfect start to the re-immersion process, full of soul, poetry, mystery and freedom.

More to come....

Your head's spinnin' in diamonds and clouds

What awaits at the top of these few stairs? A home, full of hurt, pain and infidelity? Bland’s own home? The home of his mistress? Why does it look like an office building with distinctive blue square panels?

I used to stare at the cover and marvel at the simplicity that lent itself to different interpretations, while I listened to the misery contained within, all dressed up in smooth deliveries and horn-drenched grooves. And, of course, accompanied by Bland's trademark growls.

Like many other “vintage” artists, I came to the work of Bobby “Blue” Bland through a more contemporary artist. Van Morrison’s live version of “Ain’t Nothin’ You Can Do” made me sit up and take notice of Bland. Shorty thereafter, I picked up “Two Steps from the Blues,” which Rolling Stone’s Record Guide had listed as a 5-star release.

Bland’s death a couple of days ago means there is one less classic blues man, traveling through the juke joints and supper clubs, mostly in the South.

There’s not many left for sure, and there ain’t nothin’ you can do.

Once there was a way to get back homeward

After last night's brief brush with unsavoriness (if that's not a word, it should be), it's time to revisit beauty, significance and High Art.

I am always one for a good debate on the best album ever made, and my choice changes from week-to-week, or even day-to-day. The choice always rotates around a core group, and last month it was "Exile on Main Street" Next month it might be "Born to Run" or "Moondance" or "Every Picture Tells a Story." Or one of another half dozen or so.

Back when albums and music were better, they were sequenced into sides: Sides A and B, or 1 and 2. "Darkness on the Edge of Town" was (and is) more powerful because the defiance of the music was bolstered by the hope against hope contained on the four corners of the album. The opening and closing song of each side were infused with the mantra of  "I'm not going to give up no matter how tough and ugly things get."

This also forced you to be an active listener; you had to physically get up and turn the record (or tape) over.

And no record ever rewarded a listener more for going to side 2 than "Abbey Road," which contains the single greatest album side in the history of music. Now, the whole thing is spectacular, and easily is part of the greatest album discussion.

But side 2 is positively epochal, a suite of songs so stunning, that fit together so well, that it towers above the rest of everything is the history of rock music.

In fact, here is my claim: The side 2 song suite represents the Greatest Artistic Achievement of the 20th century. I am talking art, music, film, literature. Everything.

It starts with "Here Comes the Sun," which sends shivers down your spine, and then things only get better. One freaking climactic moment after another, highlighted by a medley that contains so much brilliance that it seems unfair to put it all on one album. Paul McCartney does his best work here, but Lennon and Harrison also shine, and Ringo's drum solo says "hey, don't forget about me, either."

Layered voices, astonishing hooks, dreamy mood pieces, balls-out rock and roll, and sonic heights galore, and it all adds up to a work that makes you proud to be a human being. Listen to the remastered version on headphones -- nothing recorded since sounds better.

Also significant is that this project was the last recorded work by the group. Talk about going out on top. If hipster revisionist history throws a claim of overrated at The Beatles, this record alone will refute it. After listening closely, if anyone still makes that claim, you can't trust their judgement. About anything.

"Abbey Road," particularly the final 22 minutes, sets a standard that most likely will never be equaled.

God save the rider in the black night

John Lennon was killed 32 years ago tonight. I saw my first concert, The Eagles, 38 years ago at the then Lock Haven State College. "The Wild, the Innocent and the E Street Shuffle" first hit my turntable 39 years ago, after reading two glorious reviews, one in "Crawdaddy" and another in "Stereo Review." "Moondance" has passed its 42nd anniversary. Forty-eight years have flown by since The Beatles first made my hair stand on end on The Ed Sullivan Show.

The touchstones of my youth seem to be getting further and further away, at least by looking at the calendar. But some still strike major chords with me, and at times more so now than ever.

Take the last couple of hours, for instance. I just spent a good deal of time driving around listening to high art that was recorded more than 40 years ago. At full volume.

No record from the rock era sounds as dense, driven and alive as "Exile on Main Street." It's shot full of vitality, of decadence, of complications. Drenched in the blues, somewhat indecipherable, altogether brilliant and with no small amount of courage, it stands as testament to the power of The Rolling Stones.

When it was released, I listened to it for hours on end driving around on my Torino's 8-track, also at full volume. I had no idea then it would still matter these many years later.

Tonight, it made me feel like there are still possibilities. Still mountains to climb. Still dreams to realize. Still touchstones happening, right now.

If I can only bottle the courage so evident on those 18 tracks.

Got to scrape the shit right off my shoes, indeed.

Well now baby, the lonely nights keep growing longer…

Hard to believe, but it's been 36 years ago tonight...

You better start savin' up, for the things that money can't buy

Some artists have catalogs so deep, only the aficionados have navigated through all might be contained there. So it is with Van Morrison, whose “Ivory Tower” probably will not make any casual fan’s list for favorite Morrison tracks.

So the fact that I know this tune very well makes me an aficionado, I guess. That’s OK with me. Morrison’s peaks are staggeringly high, and “Ivory Tower” is admittedly bubbling under a lot of his other work, but I’ve always had a fondness for this percolating little R&B number.

You could argue that it’s formulaic for Morrison, and I can buy that. But I love the not-so-subtle digs that he slings as he walks on a tightrope of self-pity, which with him is not as unbecoming as it might seem.

Today’s blast from the past:

...all the beauty I could take

Van Morrison -- Ballerina

We'll make our home in the American land

Happy St. Patrick's Day from one of the greats.

Oh, to be in Connemara, where the grass is always greener.

Literally.